The key to living dangerously

So last night, I dropped my keys while walking my dog.

In the dark.

While listening to a podcast about an unsolved murder.

The keychain had my flashlight and pepper spray on it, so I was forced to retrace my route unarmed and in the pitch black.

While listening to a podcast about an unsolved murder. Did I mention that?

My hound insisted on going forward, not backward, so I ended up carrying him. I recalled the spot where I last shined the light while my pup took a cigar break. No keys.

We returned to the house and, since the lost keychain had my house key on it, we couldn't get inside. Fortunately, I keep a spare. But it's hidden in a spot that had just been painted two hours previously. This led me to do the splits, balanced on one toe, to pluck the spare out of its hidey-hole. No problem.

Inside, I fetched another flashlight and headed out again to continue the search.

Voila. The keys appeared within a yard of where I realized they went missing. Yes! Victory.

Since the mishap cheated my furry friend out of his full walk, we went for another.

This time, nothing dropped (except his cigars).

Baby, I was born this way?

A loser. Yes, that's it. I'm a born loser.

The other day, on my birthday, the very last day I could renew my driver's license before it expired, I went to the local DMV. Which was fun, don't get me wrong. I love to people-watch and wonder about their lives.

In order to get the new federal I.D. that goes into effect in 2020, at which time it will cost $14 but is free if you apply for it when you renew your driver's license, you need to bring your birth certificate, social security card, passport, old driver's license, etc. I emptied our lockbox into a fresh, new, padded manila envelope and took it with me to the DMV. (Did you know the D stands for Division?)
Quit getting Distracted, Mea.

They told me the yellowed piece of paper I thought was my birth certificate was not, in fact, my official birth certificate. I needed one with an official seal. They told me to truck downtown to the other side of the river, stand in line, and get the real deal. So obediently I went home across the river and dug through a bunch of old, old, old (like kindergarten old) folders full of report cards. Out popped the official certificate, and off I trundled back across the river to the DMV, grateful at not having to stand in line at another government building.

After that three-hour cruise, I couldn't resist the thrift shop across the street from the DMV and lugged home two garbage bags and a suitcase full of stuff.That night for giggles, my mate and I looked at all the dippy photos in those ancient school files. No birth certificate, but surely it would surface.

Two days later, I went through piles of files and garbage bags, and the manila envelope didn't show up. I uprooted the house much of the day yesterday, then as a desperate measure, called the DMV. Which doesn't have a local number. So you need to call the state DMV.

They called me back a few hours later and said yeah, they had my stuff.

Hurrah! A small victory! But hours (and dignity) lost in the search.

Today I hope to get around to schlepping across the river to pick it up.

Rain of terror

OK, so I'm a little distracted today. It's a new deadline for a new issue of the magazine I edit, and I've got a couple stories to write besides. Things on my mind include:
1. Getting my 2016 year's taxes done by Sept. 10, my acountant's deadline for the fall late filing date;
2. The pain diary I'm supposed to be keeping as an exercise with my therapist to gain control of my osteoarthritis pain (I'm a huge slacker and have only made two entries in three weeks, even though I keep a personal diary daily, religiously);
3. The two prescriptions to pick up today;
4. The sources to contact;
5. Renewing my driver's license before Oct. 23;
6. Trump's horrid DACA ruling this morning;
7. Filling out some papers for Met Life;
8. Guilt for not helping my parents more with the family business;
9. Concern for my mother and her issues ....

So all that's hogging my limited brain space.

Meanwhile ... the vice president of the nonprofit for which I'm (the worst ever) secretary emailed me asking for the results of last year's board-member election in October 2016, as she lost track of the length of term for our new treasurer.

So I'm searching in vain, all the while slowly consumed by the uneasy recollection that, at that Annual Meeting event, I'd gotten so distracted by the speakers and by my own nervousness at having to say a few words to the audience that I forgot to take notes for the first three-quarters of the event.

The last quarter I wrote on a napkin, and it amounted to so little of import that I ended up sneaking by without putting anything on record. By the next meeting, November, everyone had completely forgotten that they'd never received minutes for the previous month, October, and I didn't bother pointing it out.


I popped two Adderall in an effort to gain some focus. While in the kitchen, I ended up rinsing out some recyclables ready to be binned. I'd been set to accompany my fluff-bunny Lhasa out for a walk, but we discovered it was raining. Feeling bad for him, I decided to play chase-the-treat with him around the house -- he needed some activity.

I could hear the rain falling harder and harder, so I hopped on the computer in the kitchen to do some work for a bit till it settled down. My partner came into the room.

"Why is the water running?" he asked.

I followed his glance at the sink and saw the water on full blast.

OMG. I'd left the water on while rinsing empty coffee jars and milk jugs.

The rain had petered out but I'd continued to hear the loud, pounding, soothing shower and assumed it was rain gushing out of the clogged eaves.

Perhaps this calls for a brisk walk to get blood flowing to that empty jar I call my brain ....